The wench who lies, claims a humanitarian prize.

Her philosophical cacophony, takes hold of thee.

“It’s not you, it’s me” she speaks in sparse varieties.

The meaning repeats and she nails the introduction.

Riding high on her studded saddle, specialized in corruption

She can say it’s for the best when there’s no data to attest

And with her word as a granite foundation there’s no life

To suckle from its breast.


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